


you’re like a bird that will not be

by scenedenial



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: A little bit of angst, Anal Sex, Charmie, Cockwarming, Conversation, Fluff, Handcuffs, Happy 23rd baby I love you, Happy Birthday Timothée, Jewelry, Licking, Lingerie, M/M, Making Out, Romance, Sexual Content, They’re really just gross, Timmy never fucking showers, Unsexy wrestling, and he doesn’t like his birthday, armie just really likes how Timmy smells ://, blowjob, elizabeth is a non factor in this idk I don’t talk about her at all, gross cumplay, i can’t fucking tag, poor baby, slightly ambiguous relationship, so Armie shows up hoping to change that, timmy’s got complicated feelings about like. Getting attention and his bday, uhhhh porn yknow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-28 19:18:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17188835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scenedenial/pseuds/scenedenial
Summary: “Anyways, all I said was that it’s a totally incongruous day for a birthday.”It takes Armie several seconds to unpack that sentence, mostly because the four syllables ofincongruouslilted in Timmy’s French-y, Manhattan-y voice make him want to laugh and cry and kiss him all at once. Timothée is casually smarter and more at ease with (three!) languages than Armie will ever be.“Why?” Armie asks, persistent if nothing else.“Just...the holidays, man.” Timothée’s voice has this measured, patient quality to it like he knows Armie is being dumb but won’t call him out on it. “Everyone’s over it all by now. Shit,I’mover it. Christmas was two days ago.”I’m not over it, is what Armie wants to say.I’d fly from LA to show up tonight with a bottle of champagne and some sexy fucking jewelry in a goddamn gift bag for you if you’d be okay with it.





	1. your burden bright as weary be

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic of this pairing!! Enjoy :’) The title and chapter titles are from Sufjan Stevens’s “Happy Birthday”—it seemed fitting. 
> 
> Also, obligatory RPF statement: this is a work of fiction. I don’t know these people. I love and respect the hell out of both of them and nothing I write is meant to be taken seriously as it pertains to them as people.

“Happy birthday!” 

Armie booms it into the phone as soon as Timothée’s sleepy _hello?_ sounds on the other end, ignoring the irritated glance he receives from the woman at the café table next to him. He doesn’t do _inside voice_ so much. He’s about to burst into the song, despite being squished into the middle of a crowded coffee shop filled with haggard looking 20-somethings, when Timothée groans with something more than feigned embarrassment. 

“Hey, what does _that_ mean?” Armie asks, putting a finger in his other ear to better hear Timmy’s grunted reply. 

“Just can’t fucking stand my birthday.” 

It’s not what Armie expects to hear, to say the least. 

“Wait, what? Really?” He sounds incredulous as hell when he says it. Armie grew up in the kind of house where his mom would make, like, cinnamon rolls on the mornings of his birthdays, and where multicolored helium balloons would litter the ceilings. He realizes as soon as he reacts to Timothée’s flat, tired voice that he’s being awfully fucking presumptuous to assume this kind of joyful luck for anyone else. “I mean, sorry, why is that?”

Armie’s always doing that, shoving forward with something too emphatically, never stopping to consider someone else’s potential variances. It’s the privilege welling up though his rich, white-boy, Texan farmhouse childhood pores. He bites down on his lower lip, feeling inordinately shitty. He’s running through the worst case scenarios in his brain—Timothée was dumped ruthlessly on his birthday in high school; his entire family had forgotten it a la _Sixteen Candles_ ; something even more traumatic, perhaps. Armie is spiraling in a way that only his endless, boundless worry about sweet, sweet Timmy leads him to.

“Armie?” The kid in question (no, a _man_ now, really—23 years old, well and truly over the cusp of awkward young adulthood) sort of laughs it into the phone, and it’s a relief. “Did you hear me?”

“No, sorry, what?” He must still be speaking too loudly, because the woman next to him is side eyeing him and looking like she’s trying to decide whether or not to ask his to shut the hell up. Armie, with some effort, reins in the volume of his voice. “I’m in this, uh, loud café.”

“Ooh, fancy.” Timothée says, for no reason, or maybe because he’s a New Yorker or just because he’s goofy. “Anyways, all I said was that it’s a totally incongruous day for a birthday.” 

It takes Armie several seconds to unpack that sentence, mostly because the four syllables of _incongruous_ lilted In Timmy’s French-y, Manhattan-y voice make him want to laugh and cry and kiss him all at once. Timothée is casually smarter and more at ease with (three!) languages than Armie will ever be. 

“Why?” Armie asks, persistent if nothing else.

“Just...the holidays, man.” Timothée’s voice has this measured, patient quality to it like he knows Armie is being dumb but won’t call him out on it. “Everyone’s over it all by now. Shit, _I’m_ over it. Christmas was two days ago.”

_I’m not over it_ , is what Armie wants to say. _I’d fly from LA to show up tonight with a bottle of champagne and some sexy fucking jewelry in a goddamn gift bag for you if you’d be okay with it._

Instead, he just swallows and says, “That makes sense. I’m sorry you’ve been cursed with this time of year.” Armie’s never been that good at the comforting thing, especially when he can’t _touch_ whoever he’s trying to placate. If Timothée was sitting across from him right now with almond croissant crumbs on his damn Louis Vuitton (or his damn Target-brand striped tee, just as likely), Armie would reach across the table and hold his hands. He can’t, though. His voice is the best he has. 

“I mean, it’s no big deal.” Timmy says, sounding like it’s actually maybe a little bit of a big deal—his voice cracks and he sounds like a child again. “Just. I don’t know. A lot of years when I was a kid of feeling, like... I don’t know, like my family was just going through the motions. Like no one really wanted to be celebrating, or whatever. It’s dumb.” 

“No it isn’t.” Armie says. He kind of wants to cry at the candid, childlike lucidity of Timothée’s voice. He can’t imagine that day being glossed over for him as a child. Literally can’t comprehend it. It’s heartbreaking to think of Timmy feeling that way, and heartbreaking too that they’ve somehow never spoken of this. It makes Armie feel empty and sad that there are things on this earth that upset Timmy that he knows nothing about yet, little pains and traumas that are now an unassuming part of him. Things that don’t matter enough for Armie to have heard about in the seven-ish months that _this_ thing between them has been going on. Armie wants to know each and every thing that’s gone wrong in Timothée’s life, so that he can fix it all as best as he can. 

“It’s just easier to avoid it, I guess.” Timothee is saying. “The whole thing makes me feel weird.” Armie imagines Timothée sitting up shirtless in his mattress on the floor, there because he thinks it looks kind of cool and not because he can’t afford a goddamn bed frame. He still sounds sleepy, like Armie’s call woke him up. 

“I’m sorry.” Armie says, because he’s not sure what else he can say.

“Not your fault.” 

“Still.” Armie wants to hold him. “Hey, listen...” A half-formed plan is beginning to boil up in Armie’s head, which is usually nothing close to a good sign. Timothée snorts a little, like he knows just from the tone of Armie’s voice.

“What?” Armie taps out a Google search on his laptop as he begins to talk. 

“How would you feel about me getting on a flight in, say... three hours? Come and see you, spend the night. Or a few nights.” 

Timmy barks a funny, seal-like laugh.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“Aren’t you, like, literally filming a movie?”

“See, I have two weeks off.” Armie says, joking, because he’s told Timothée this probably thirty five times and because Timothée can never keep anyone’s schedules (including his own) in his head for more than a day. 

“Oh, for...”

“For Christmas.” Armie mutters for him, and they both burst into laughter. 

“See, I’ve been upstaged again. Even your break upstages me.” But Timothée’s voice is light and happy now.

“Yeah, but it’s also convenient as hell.”

“No kidding. So, you’re coming?” Timothée sounds so sweet. Armie wants to bury his face in that pale, swan-ass neck of his. 

“If you want me to.”

“I do.” Armie listens to Timmy swallow on the line. “Really.”

“Then I’m there.”

“Armie,” Timmy says, and his tone makes Armie feel like he’s a split second away from melting into goo all over his laptop as he clicks buttons to book a flight, “thank you.”

“Of course. You’re special.” It sounds cheesy as fuck coming out of his mouth, but Timmy makes this lovely, comforted noise and Armie wants to scream. 

“I can’t wait to see you.”

“Ditto. Now, listen, lemme get out of here and go pack.” The prospect of holding Timothée in his stupid hipster bed in less that ten hours, of letting his hands roam like they haven’t been able to in six weeks, grips Armie and won’t let him go. His internal organs are all doing somersaults. 

“Right, right. I’ll see you soon.” Timothée is funny when he gets off the phone, every time. Gets all formal and chummy for a second or two. It’s endearing as hell, the old-mannishness of some of his tiny actions. 

“Hey. Love you.” Armie wants to say happy birthday, thinks he shouldn’t, and then says it anyways. 

“Thank you.” Timothée says, sounding fine with it, sounding more than fine. “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> porn and light angst is coming up


	2. life is anxious, life is mean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO SORRY but it turns out that I lied about this being a 100% porn chapter........and people were excited about that too. Oops. I got a little carried away and ended up having to split the next bit I’ve written into a few chapters, so this one isn’t super sex heavy. HOWEVER......it’s coming (heh), I promise.
> 
> There’s a tiny bit of angst/drama in this chapter, but it’s resolved quickly. Whew, I’m getting way more invested in what was supposed to be a quick thing than I should be.

“God.” Timmy says when he opens the door to his loft, face all winter-pale and top lip whiskery, a giant black t-shirt printed with the words _try-hard_ hanging off his rawboned frame. Armie can just see the hem of loose red boxers poking out from under it. “Hi.” 

“Hi.” Armie repeats, grinning so big that he must looked crazed. He’s fucking freezing from his trek up to the building in the snow, and Timmy is blocking the doorway with his languid little body, barefoot on hardwood, so Armie has to put a hand on his warm neck and sort of push the both of them inside. 

Standing in the middle of his loft (leagues nicer than the apartment he owned when Armie met him, but still small and modestly decorated—humble), Timothée looks like... well, he looks like a man. And then he grins with his whole body and shrugs his shoulders and kind of bounds into Armie’s embrace and looks, well, like Elio. Like he’s still seventeen in the Crema sunshine. Armie hugs him as tight as he dares.

“You’re here.” Timmy’s voice is so cerebrally imprinted into Armie that hearing it in person sends a flood of warm, joyful calm through him that threatens at the backs of his eyes. “I sort of didn’t believe you’d come.”

Armie loops his arms around Timothée’s lower back, looking down into his open face. Timmy’s hand is on Armie’s chest. 

“You didn’t? When have I ever not followed through with you?” Timmy smiles. Armie wants to lick him clean like a cat. 

“No, no, that’s not what I mean.” Timothée shakes his head sheepishly. “I trust you. Just felt too good to be true.” 

“Yeah.” Armie says. “It did.”

“How was your flight?” Timmy’s let himself sag in Armie’s grip, his weight supported by forearms crosses over his back. Armie could pick him up and throw him around like a fucking football. 

“Good. I read a bunch of that book you gave me.”

“Which one?” Timmy asks. Goddamn literate bastard. The only reason Armie reads anything anymore is because Timothée has a habit of raving around Armie’s houses in Texas or LA or this loft or hotels during press tours and shaking a paperback in the face of anyone who will listen while bemoaning the gorgeousness of the prose or the complexity of the characters. And, yeah, Armie wants to read the words that make his boy’s face light up like that. 

“Um...” Armie swings Timmy a little in his arms, like he’s carrying a child. A 5’10 child with a pornstache. “Maurice.”

“Ah!” Timmy lets his head fall back. Armie doesn’t bite his neck (yet). “E. M. Forster. So good. So sad.” Armie nods, pulling Timothée closer to him. In truth, he’d found the text dense and a little hard to comprehend. Still sad though, in parts. Sad and pretty. Like Timmy, sometimes (pretty all of the time). 

“Missed you.” Armie mutters. Timmy breathes on his neck, and the shiver it leaves behind runs down his spine. 

“Same here.” Timmy gets his arms up around Armie’s neck, hug-strangling him, and it throws him back to the consummation scene in their movie. Elio hanging all over him. “Are you tired?”

“Not particularly.” Armie replies, hoping wantonly that those words are a hint. “Oh, hey. Happy birthday.” He feels sort of embarrassed that he hadn’t said it until now. Considering that’s the reason he’s here. “Twenty three, that’s-“ 

Timothée presses his open mouth against Armie’s before he can finish. 

“Okay, uh huh.” Armie murmurs into Timmy’s lips, getting a hand up in his unwashed dark hair before Timmy can tell him to shut the fuck up and kiss him. 

They make out like teenagers for a minute, like, hot and spitty, Timmy shoving his tongue between Armie’s teeth maybe too hard. Armie pushes a hand up his black t-shirt-dress and relishes Timmy’s sigh when a hand clamps over the backside of his ribs. Armie can almost span the width of Timmy’s waist with one hand. 

Then Timothée pulls back, breathing hard. 

“I’m not sure...” he starts, pushing a lock of hair off his pinkish face, “if you know how much it means to me that you came all this way. For today.”

“Of course I came.” Armie says, Timmy’s expression all soft for him. “It’s your birthday.”

“I’m just not used to,” Timmy pauses, pecks Armie on the cheek, chaste, “having it paid attention to. Not that I need attention. Not that—“

Armie reaches up and puts a giant hand over Timothée’s mouth. It’s sort of delightfully exciting, the tan of his skin enveloping more than half of Timmy’s milkwhite, startled face. 

“Baby.” Timothée’s eyes are big and dark and a little bit bloodshot. Maybe they’ll smoke something later. “You don’t need to justify anything to me, you know. I’m here because I love you and I want to celebrate with you.” 

Armie feels Timmy smile huge under the flesh of his palm. Something keeps his hand tethered there. Jesus fuck, he’s horny. Timothée is so slight and smart and gorgeous and Armie wants to shove him hard into the ground. Then, quick as a whip, Armie feels Timmy’s tongue dart out and lap at the skin of his palm. 

“Oh my _god_.” 

“Salty.” Timothée says, garbled as hell, and Armie hoots and yanks him into a headlock.

“Oh, fuck you, that’s no fair!” Timmy hollers, tiny fists struggling against Armie’s chest, but he’s laughing. Timmy really is just a fraction of his size, seven inches shorter and seventy pounds lighter. Armie fucking loves it, for whatever perverted reason; it makes him feel in control, powerful. He loves manhandling Timothée, flipping him over, holding him down, getting a hand around his neck. 

“Hey, whatcha thinking about?” Armie must have a glazed, far-off look on his face because Timmy takes his chin in hand and tilts his head down until their eyes meet. God. Fucking beautiful. 

“Do you remember...” Armie starts, letting Timmy out of the headlock and pulling him, again, into his chest. Armie’s shoes are still on. His suitcase and carry on bag are still piled in front of the door. Timmy reaches up and tugs at a short lock of hair falling over Armie’s ear. “That time in Paris?” 

Seeing Timothée’s face wash with the memory is something fucking else. 

“With the showing? And the necklace you broke?” Timmy bites his bottom lip and smirks heavy-lidded at Armie. Annoying. _Hot_. Armie’s head fills up with the image of Timmy rubbing at a red line around his neck where the thin gold chain had snapped. Armie hadn’t meant to do it, not really, but then the jewelry was in his hand and Timmy was squalling and crying and bouncing like a goddamn pornstar on Armie’s cock in a bathroom stall, and he’d pulled and pulled and it had snapped in two. Armie all but chokes thinking about how wrecked Timothée had looked after that, under the fluorescent lights, cum dripping out of him and running in rivulets down his thighs. Throat red. Eyes leaking with tears, the mascara they put on him for photos smeared down his cheeks. Hair a mess, his own cum having to be licked out of his suit by Armie in a desperate attempt to keep it from staining. 

“Fuck.” Armie mutters, and he knows he’s half-hard, and he knows Timothée can feel it. 

“Do you like thinking about that?” Timmy says, and, fuck, Armie adores it when he asks him questions like that. Fucking brazen. Should probably be awkward, but isn’t. 

“ _Yes_.” Armie blurts out, too eager, unable to care. “Listen...”

“I am.” There’s a smile curling at the edges of Timmy’s mouth, poking fun. Armie darts down and kisses him. 

“It’s your birthday, so why don’t you tell me what you want to do.” Armie’s barely finished drawling it out when thinks he sees Timothée frown as he looks away. “Hey, stop, c’mere,” Armie interrupts his own thought, and it’s his turn to grab at Timmy’s chin, “what?”

“It’s...” Timmy trails off; Armie waits patiently. It’s a common enough occurrence. “It’s embarrassing.” 

“What is?” 

“I don’t know. Getting attention for something I didn’t even _do_. Like, fuck, I’m an actor, y’know...” he’s stammering a little, “I can take attention. But this, it’s like, it’s like—I didn’t play any role in being _born_. It’s stupid.”

Armie can’t help it. He bursts into laughter, still holding Timmy’s face, which crinkles into a frown as he pulls away. 

“No, wait, Tim, I’m sorry.” Armie sobers immediately, worried as hell that he went too far, invalidated Timmy’s feelings (something they’ve fought about before; Timothée: _it hurts my feelings I’m trying to tell you something_ ) by laughing like that. “It’s just... you’ve got such a complex about this whole thing, honey.“

“A complex?” Timmy repeats, incredulous, and Armie knows he’s made a mistake. Wishes desperately that he could turn back the clock and punch himself in the face instead of laughing when Timmy was _sharing his feelings_. Armie’s such a fucking dick. 

“No, I’m sorry, that came out wrong.” Armie has never been good at backtracking, at patching things up. 

“How was it supposed to come out, then.” Timothée’s voice is cold and flat and it sort of makes Armie want to cry. Jesus. 

“Like... okay. Can we sit down?” Armie feels desperately anxious to return them to the state of _before_ , when they were laughing into each other’s mouths. But to do that, he has to fix this thing, like, properly. 

Timothée stalks over to his modern, streamlined couch and flounces down onto it. Armie sinks into an armchair across from him. 

“Listen.” Armie says, for what feels like the thousandth time today. “I’m so sorry that your birthday has never been good for you, Timothée. You don’t deserve that, okay? But, look. I’m right here. I have presents in my bag. I bought goddamn champagne at the airport duty free. I love you and I’m here and maybe this _won’t_ be a bad birthday, right?” 

Timothée shifts on the couch, drawing his knees up in front of him. Armie doesn’t look at the new, white stripes of back-of-thigh that are exposed. Timmy shrugs, looking miserable and childlike. Armie wants to hug him so badly. 

“And you’re so humble. I know that. And fucking believe me, I know how it feels to have attention on something you don’t want attention on. Remember the goddamn dance scenes?” Timmy huffs a stubbornly concealed snort of laughter at that, and it makes Armie feel about a hundred times better. “I guess what I’m saying is... I’m sorry for laughing at you, really. But isn’t it maybe time to give this birthday thing another shot?”

Armie all but holds his breath as Timothée unfurls, slowly, slowly, slowly, from his ball on the couch and stands up. He pads over, all bare feet and long, hairy legs and soft soft forearms that have never been exposed to sun, and sits, gingerly, in Armie’s lap. Armie could die. 

“You’re right.” Timmy says, sighing in a way that makes it seem like a pretty painful admission. “I— I could probably stand to be less of a bitch about this whole thing. Try and do away with my...complex.”

“Attaboy.” Armie says, stupidly, earning him a playful little shove in the chest from the angel perched atop his thighs. “Promise you’re not mad?” He pouts, maybe a little Oliver-like. 

“I’m not mad.” Timothée murmurs. “I’m sorry. I’m so grateful you came, okay? I don’t want it to seem like I’m not.”

“Okay.” Armie says, because sometimes less is more (if Timothée had heard him thinking that, he undoubtedly would’ve laughed until he choked—Armie Hammer is famous for overdoing each and every thing in his life). 

“Okay?”

“Okay, so we’re both sorry.” Armie says. Timmy smiles at him, positively cherubic. Armie almost can’t stand his sweetness. 

“Listen.” Timmy lilts, turning the tables, shuffling around on Armie’s lap so they’re practically nose-to-nose. “That little therapist spiel you just gave me was, like, a tiny bit hot.”

“It _was?_ ” Armie snorts, incredulous. His hands settle onto Timothee’s hips. They fit there like they belong. 

“Like, just a little bit. Kind of, I don’t know, authoritative.” Timothée is giggling, but his cheeks are slightly high in color, and he’s got an inkling of a hard-on pushing into Armie’s stomach. 

“Huh, Chalamet.” Armie teases, running a hand over Timmy’s lower back. “You’re a little messed up.”

“Oh, _I’m_ messed up? What about you, Mr. I-snap-the-living-shit-out-of-boy’s-jewelry-while-fucking-them?” 

“Oh, come on, that’s not even the worst I’ve done.” Armie ruts up into Timmy’s thigh a little, feeling blood pool in his lower belly. Timmy gasps, just a tiny bit, mouth narrowing into a pretty, fuckable ‘o’.

“Believe me, I know.” Timothée bites his lip like he’s thinking. “Let’s see. Oh, there was the time you broke that headboard. In a guest room. Of my _mom’s house_. Or, how about the _many_ times you’ve gotten off on fucking me in public. Where anyone could see. Or, here we go, that time you put a vibrator in me for, what was it, five straight hours?” Timothée is smirking. Armie’s face is getting hotter by the second. 

“You liked that.” Armie mutters, drawing a hand up to the side of Timothée’s face. 

“I did. A lot.”

“You came in your pants from that. Untouched.”

“Mhmm.”

Armie’s dick jumps at Timmy’s heavy-lidded eyes, at the placidity of his tone. He thrusts up again, ever so slightly.

“What’s that you were saying earlier?” Timothée mumbles, voice barely pitched above a whisper. “About it being my birthday and doing what I want to do?” Shit. Armie breathes out in a heavy huff through his nose. 

“What is it that you want to do?” 

“Open my presents.” Timothée’s voice is sweet, light, perfect virginal innocence on his wet red lips. 

“You’re fucking kidding.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really really hope you guys are liking this so far!!


	3. keep your bed warm, keep your humor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise you guys, we’re so close to flat out fucking. Just gotta build our boys up a liiiitle more. I hope you all enjoy this ridiculously self indulgent chapter <3

_Presents?_ Armie doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh or cry at this _unbelievably_ frustrating change of heart. 

“Nope.” Timmy pulls hard on Armie’s earlobe. “I wanna see what you got me.” 

Armie debates pulling his cock out of his pants and saying _this_ for a moment before shoving Timmy (gently) off his lap and padding flat-footed across the floor to his suitcase. He takes the chance to (finally) take off his shoes. When he turns back around, two shop-wrapped gift bags and a bottle of champagne in his hands, Timothée is perched on the couch, legs folded under himself in a gorgeous tableau. Armie is salivating; he palms roughly at himself though his jeans in an attempt to alleviate the strain on them. It doesn’t work. Timmy raises an eyebrow in a pretty, aristocratic arch but doesn’t concede. 

“Here.” Armie mutters, setting the champagne on the coffee table and the bags into Timmy’s lap as he takes a seat next to him. 

“When did you get these?” Timothée has a spark of childlike wonder in his eyes, looking at the prettily wrapped gifts in front of him; pink and silver tissue paper, organza ribbons, _for Timmy_ written on the both of them in pen, Armie’s handwriting. 

“A few weeks ago.” Armie’s almost embarrassed by the admission, especially in the face of how Timmy feels about his birthday; he definitely jumped the gun. But Timmy’s face shines with a kind of thankful light, and it turns Armie’s stomach liquid and warm. 

“Thank you.” Timmy is smiling, all unshaven and greasy and bony and _gorgeous_ and Armie wants to jump his bones or marry him or both. 

“Wait till you open ‘em to say that.”

“Which should I do first?” Timothée asks, his shoulders bumping up and down like he’s excited. It’s impossibly sweet. 

“Either. Doesn’t matter.” Armie bites his lower lip. He picked these things out without too much trouble, but he’s nervous now, nervous that they won’t be right. Timothée looks at him from under mile-long lashes and picks up the bag overflowing with (slightly crumpled from the flight over) pink tissue. 

He’s so gentle with the whole thing that it makes Armie want to cry—undoing the ribbon that fastens the handles closed, pressing it flat and laying it on the coffee table. Running his finger over Armie’s two word inscription and smiling in a soft, secret way. Lifting out the tissue paper like it’s a fragile living thing, folding it into pillowy squares. When he finally reaches in and pulls out what’s inside, Armie’s barely breathing. 

“Jewelry?” Timothée guesses, eyes crinkled with a grin as he cradles the small black box in the well of his palms. “Armie, thank you.”

“C’mon, just open it.” Maybe Armie really is impatient in every single circumstance. Timothée rolls his eyes, but lifts off the lid anyways. 

He gasps when he sees what’s inside, and for some reason that little sound revamps the casual half-chub Armie’s been sporting. He squirms, readjusting himself while keeping his eyes trained on Timmy’s face. 

“You like it?” 

“Baby, I love it. Seriously. Thank you so much.” Armie notices the tiny tremble of Timothée’s fingers when he lifts the necklace (thin gold chain, this one with a tiny charm dangling from the center; a swan, thin golden neck arched to the sky) and wants to kiss him worse than he’s ever wanted to do anything. 

“Because I can exchange it, if...”

“Armie, shut the fuck up. I _love_ it.” Timothée leans over, necklace still clutched in his long, long fingers, and kisses Armie on the mouth. He pulls back before it can heat up too much (to Armie’s _utter_ disappointment) and holds the chain up again. “Why the swan?”

“You...” Armie almost can’t say it, it’s too sappy, “remind me of one. The neck and all. And you’re pretty, and, like, graceful. I don’t know. And a necklace to replace the one I snapped.”

Timothée’s eyes actually look a tiny bit glossy when he meets Armie’s. 

“This is perfect.”

“I’m really happy you like it.” 

“No one told me you were this good at buying gifts.” Timmy leans forward and headbutts his way under Armie’s shoulder, Elio through and through. Armie hugs Timothée around the shoulders, sticks his head in the crook of his neck and smells his hair and B.O. because he’s disgusting and Armie loves the shit out of it. 

“Mmm.” Armie grunts, almost unconsciously. Tiny electrical shocks seem to be running from his stomach down his thighs as Timmy unwittingly topples him. 

“Oh, you are perverted.” Timothée laughs. “Who knew you liked the smell of unwashed man.” 

“I knew.” Armie mutters into Timmy’s armpit. “Cause you never fucking shower and it makes my dick hard.”

“Huh. Kinky.” Timothée squirms up so their faces are in line with each other and bites Armie on the cartilage of his ear. “In a really gross way.” His tongue snakes down into the ridges of Armie’s ear. The golden necklace still glints in his grip. Armie wants to fasten it around his pale expanse of throat. Swan neck. 

“You’re the one who’s _eating out_ my ear.” 

“My _god_ ,” Timmy groans, pulling away with a grimace, “could you have worded that _any_ worse?”

“Oh, probably, I wasn’t even trying.”

“Armie.” Timothée drops his head down to Armie’s shoulder. His cream-colored skin stands out harsh against the wide black neckline of his shirt. Armie dips his head and kisses him where fabric and skin meet. Outside, the sun has set without ceremony. “Will you put this on me?” Armie holds out his hand to collect the thin coil of chain, cool against the heat of his palm, little swan gleaming up at him. 

“Uh huh. Turn around.” Timmy does, tiny body shifting until he’s sitting between Armie’s thighs, back to him. He lowers his head and sweeps his dark, grease-matted hair off his neck in a motion that’s somehow so tantalizing that every synapse in Armie’s brain fires at once and he just, like, short circuits. He has trouble holding his fingers steady enough to close the clasp at the nape of Timothee’s fuzzed-up, brutally pale neck, the heady odor of his body stronger here with his hair lifted away. 

Timmy looks down at the necklace, where it hangs just below his clavicles, then turns his head back to catch Armie in a kiss. 

“Thank you. It’s wonderful.” Armie, bad at accepting compliments, just shoves the second bag at him. 

“Here, one more.” Timmy’s brow crinkles up with worry, then.

“Wait, A, how much did you spend on me? You didn’t need to do that...” He sounds genuinely, guiltily apologetic. Armie chuckles and reaches around to rub at Timothée’s throat. Still imagining that red line. 

“God, Tim, don’t worry about that. Please. Besides, this one might be more of a gift to me than you, really.” Timmy cocks his brows up at that.

“Cool, so it’s definitely a sex thing.”

“You don’t know that!” Armie protests, indignant. 

Timmy shrugs, an _I-don’t-believe-you-in-the-slightest_ shrug, and goes about disassembling the bag with as much precise care as he did the first. 

“Jesus fuck.” He mutters when he pulls out the first item; ivory panties, a high _Baywatch_ -y cut to them, lace round the edges, and a teardrop shaped keyhole between the ass cheeks. Armie is pretty fucking proud of himself for these. 

“Keep going.” Armie chides. He’s hard. Very much so. Turns out Timmy doesn’t even have to be _wearing_ minuscule scraps of lace—just them in his hands is enough to get Armie’s motor whirring so fast he feels lightheaded. 

“God, there’s more?” Timmy’s voice is a whine, but his cheeks are burning high with color and there’s a pleased, dark glint in his eyes. 

_More_ is a deep navy pair of velvet shorts, smaller by half than any Armie was forced to wear on set, soft as hell to the touch. Timothée makes a little noise in his throat as he looks at them, turning them over in his hands. He’s so _careful_ with anything he may deem as precious; he doesn’t act like a rich boy, doesn’t act like a star. Armie loves him for it. And _more_ is a silky red thong with garters that snake midway down the thighs and end in lace, and a blush-pink boyshort with sheer cutouts round the side, and, finally, _more_ is a plush blue set of handcuffs, the key tied to them molded in the shape of a delicate heart. 

Timothée’s breathing is fast when he finally looks up from the pile of fabrics in his lap and trains his gaze on Armie. 

“You want me to wear these things for you?” 

Armie just nods. His jeans have visibly tented, and he’s not making an effort to hide it. 

“You like the idea of me in pretty things?” 

Another nod. 

“But you also like sticking your nose in my armpits. How’s that work?” Timmy’s voice is calculated and sweet and going straight to Armie’s cock. 

“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Mmm,” hums Timmy, like that makes sense to him, “okay.” There’s a soft, loaded silence while Timmy sucks on his lip and Armie digs the heel of his hand hard into his erection. “Thought you said I could pick what we do, though.” Whenever Timothée gets like this (a tiny bit belligerent, domineering, capable) Armie cannot fucking resist him. 

“What is it that you wanna do?” Timothée smirks, almost cruelly, and picks up the handcuffs, and Armie knows where this is going before he even speaks.

“Maybe I want to put these on you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear everyone who’s commented so far: I love you I love you I love you you’re the reason I do this!!


	4. you’re god’s great paramour and sweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a two chapter thing that I posted on Timmy’s birthday and was Done with but...... here we are. And this chapter is Finally what I’ve wanted to give y’all from the beginning i.e. a solid block of porn. Enjoy ;))

Timothée lets out this huge rush of air when he slides down onto Armie’s cock, barely stretched, and it catches up in his throat somewhere and makes a sound like he’s choking. Armie silently wills a higher power to prevent Timmy from having any kind of health emergency while Armie is bound up like this, helpless and at his mercy. He’s sitting upright on Timothée’s IKEA couch, his legs open and his feet firmly planted on the carpet. His hands are behind him, the fluffy handcuffs almost tight enough around his wrists to hurt. Definitely not made for someone of Armie’s stature.

Timmy bottoms out, the pert cleft of his ass pressing up against Armie’s stomach, and Armie has to hold his breath and squeeze his eyes shut to prevent himself from coming then and there. 

“God.” He whispers through clenched teeth once he thinks he has just enough control over his body to not shoot off in the first twenty seconds. (And that has happened before, embarrassingly enough. Timothée is just so _tight_ and so _burning hot_ inside, every single time. Clenching like a vice around Armie. His walls close enough that it nearly hurts. Muscles spasming across Armie’s length. Timmy throwing his head back and murmuring to himself, quiet, nonsensical prayers that end in his voice rising and a growled, bitten off _”fuck me right now”_ dripping from his bruising lips. It’s too much; Armie can hardly blame himself, right?)

Armie, careful to keep the rest of his body perfectly still, lets his neck drop forward until his face is buried in the spot where Timothée’s shoulder meets neck meets damp hair. He’s obsessed with that patch of skin, the new necklace now shooting it through with gold. He licks over a trio of freckles that interrupt the milky expanse of flesh. Timmy showered before this, much to Armie’s chagrin, insisting that Armie couldn’t fuck him _as is_ with color rising high in his face. Armie had the animalistic, base need to bend Timothée over the counter he was eating leftover pizza from the box at (he’d realized, upon standing up from the couch after a messy, heady makeout that left Timmy’s chest black and blue, that he hadn’t eaten since before getting on the plane and was about to pass out) and ram his tongue in the places that would smell the strongest. 

But Timothée washed is a delight too, in a different way. His skin is smoother, his curls defined and shiny. He smells like bar soap instead of musk and (though it’s not  
much of a toss-up between the two) Armie could get used to it. 

Timmy reaches a hand up (Armie wants to bite every slim finger on it, leave a ring of red marks) and nudges Armie’s head away. 

“Nope.” Timmy’s voice is relaxed and easy, like he isn’t being speared open on an admittedly gargantuan cock.

“Seriously?” Armie can’t keep the whine out of his voice. His head bangs back against the couch in frustrated disbelief. “I can’t even kiss you?” He cant see Timmy’s face (another enormous downside to this situation) but he can _feel_ his shit-eating grin. 

“Correct.” 

“Tim.” Armie doesn’t know what he’s trying to accomplish here; Timothée was clear about how this would go. 

“Armie.” Timmy reaches for the remote that sits in front of them on the coffee table. Armie almost yelps as Timmy leans forward with his cock still inside; keeping himself from thrusting up into the sudden burst of stimulation is a superhuman effort. And that angle must mean he’s dragging across Timothée’s prostate; Timmy’s thighs clench a tiny bit across Armie’s lap, and it’s gratifying. But Timmy doesn’t make a sound, just turns on the TV and flicks through the channels until he finds something he likes the look of. Armie can’t focus well enough to even discern what the show is. 

“How long?” He asks, in a desperate rush. The television is too much of the wrong kind of stimulus. The cuffs are digging into his wrists, rendering him deliciously, terrifyingly immobile. Timothée is so hot and stretched around him, the split of his ass all reddened where Armie can see it. 

“I don’t know yet.” Timmy says it in that same casual discussing-the-weather voice and Armie wants to flip him to the ground and fuck some sense back into him. Being stripped of that kind of power, the kind he usually has... it’s _good_ , in the most infuriating way possible. A bead of sweat slips between Armie’s shoulder blades. 

“Ballpark, Timmy. C’mon.”

“Longer if you don’t settle the hell down.” Timothée’s growls it, and the tone makes Armie’s whole body flush with warmth like a 101 degree fever has come on in the span of seconds. Timothée’s skin is sweating where it sticks to Armie’s. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Armie honestly doesn’t know how much his body can take before he shorts out and flips over into autopilot and starts thrusting up into Timmy’s impossibly tight warmth with abandon.

_I’m going to cuff you, and you’re going to sit there and stay still while I sit on your cock until I’ve had enough._

Armie is being _used_ , and that knowledge is fucking mouthwatering. He’s nothing to Timothée right now but a big goddamn dildo, there for no reason but to hold his whorish little hole open and keep it stuffed. 

The television switches into a commercial break; a white-toothed man is grinning into the camera with shiny cars parked around him. Timothée stretches one bare, sweet leg out. Armie’s flooded with the memory of holding it in front of cameras, massaging his (Elio’s) foot, bringing it up to his mouth. Timmy rotates his ankle, flexes his toes. The action shifts his hips on Armie’s lap ever so slightly, and it occurs to Armie that he may be doing it on purpose. Eking our pleasure for himself in attempted secret as he perches on Armie, sexily torturous. Armie breathes in-out-in-out, hard, but doesn’t speak. The TV is advertising adult incontinence medication. Outside Timmy’s picture window, New York is shrouded in night, the snow that’s continued falling visible in the circles of light cast off from the street lamps.

Something about that image, about Timmy’s soft, measured breathing, the way his ribcage rises and falls centimeters away from Armie’s bare chest, the low lighting in his living room, grounds Armie. Pulls him back into this, away from the _hoping and waiting and wanting_ into where he is in the second. Under Timothée. The place he always wants to be. 

Armie can’t help it. He shifts forward and kisses Timothée’s shoulder blade. It’s chaste, closed mouth and quick enough. He pulls back and waits for Timothée to reprimand him, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Timmy drops his head back against Armie’s shoulder, so Armie can see his flushed face, shining eyes, open mouth with lips that look like they’ve been chewed on violently. The swan glints at his neck. 

“I love you.” Armie murmurs, right into Timmy’s ear. He’s never felt surer of something. Timmy gasps a little, the first real sound he’s made in many minutes, bites down on his lip. 

“I love you too.” Timothee’s eyebrows are pitched up in a strained-looking grimace. There’s sweat at his temples. “So much.” 

Armie wishes he could see Timmy’s cock right now. Timothée’s face is pulled into a perfect caricature of _neediness_ , like he might die without friction, like he might die without a hand at his dick. 

“Baby,” Armie chides, thinking that Timmy’s as painfully, blisteringly ready for this as he is by now, “you wanna unlock me? You’ve taken this so good.”

Armie realizes that he’s pulling back the power with his words, the tone of his voice, even as he’s bound and immobile, but Timothée is too wrecked and stretched and fucked out (without even being fucked, Armie thinks with a shiver) to complain about it. Timmy’s back arches, head pressing back into Armie further—trying to fuck himself down on the cock inside him, Armie realizes with a delicious start. 

“C’mon, lover, pretty boy, darling.” Armie mouths wetly at Timmy’s neck, is met with a gratuitous, heavy sigh. “Unlock me and I can do that for you.”

It seems to be enough. Armie could cry with relief. Timothée sits up straight again, braces himself with his arms, hands splayed on either side of Armie’s thighs. Armie wishes he could help him off—Timmy’s arms are shaking. He pulls off slow, almost too slow, and the sick drag and sluice of lube makes Armie’s legs shake; pulling off can’t be comfortable for Timmy, after half an hour of having it inside. 

Finally the head of Armie’s cock pops out from between Timothée’s reddened, lube dampened ass cheeks with a squelching noise that’s almost comical. Timmy sighs and curses and loses his balance, and Armie almost snaps a shoulder out of place trying to throw out his still-bound arms to catch him with a tiny shout. It’s just a stumble, though, and Timmy recovers with his hands braced against the coffee table. Armie can see his legs trembling. From this angle, Timothée bent over with his ass in the air, Armie can see the fluttering of his slick, stretched asshole. His cock jumps. That’s _his_ doing. Timmy breathes out, long and deep. 

“Oh, baby.” Armie soothes, wishing desperately that he could reach out and rub Timothée’s shoulders. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I know.” Timothée turns, slowly, to face Armie. He looks wrecked as hell, moisture glittering on his eyelashes, but his lips are curled into a tiny, slanted smile. 

“Jesus.” Timmy mutters. “That was way harder than I thought it would be.”

“What, your cock?” Armie can’t resist it. Timmy rolls his eyes; he’s still a little shaky, his movements slightly unsteady as he grabs the heart-shaped handcuff key off the coffee table (his pink, bobbing cock looking like something Armie wants to swallow), but he no longer seems like he’s about to fall. 

“Here, lean forward.” Armie does, with such enthusiasm that he nearly topples off the small couch. It takes Timmy a minute to jimmy the key into the lock, but when it pops and Armie can _move_ again, it’s such a relief he could cry. Timmy picks up Armie’s wrist and stares at the deep, red imprint with tentative wonder in his face. Armie pulls him in and kisses him on the mouth. 

“Just so you know,” Armie mutters into Timothée’s jaw bone before licking a long, wet stripe up it—cleft of his handsome, European chin all the way up to his ear, “I’ve literally never wanted to fuck you more badly than I do right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Try and tell me cockwarming Wouldn’t definitely be a thing these two got up to


	5. your birthday brings a pardoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, my loves! This is it!! Good old fashioned fucking that’s fun for everyone involved. Please enjoy!!!

Timothée swears aloud. His hand finds Armie’s thigh and squeezes it.

“Bed?” He asks, voice husky like he’s being sucking dick. Armie needs to put his cock in Timmy’s mouth more, he thinks. Maybe not tonight, but more. He looks too pretty like that, heartbreakingly pretty with spit and cum mingling on his chin, eyes wide, cheeks hollowed. 

“Bed.” Armie agrees. He wipes his cock off with his own t-shirt, gross as hell but convenient. Timmy stands up off the couch, pulling Armie after him with both hands around his. He’s still moving like he’s sore, which makes Armie a little worried about putting his dick back in him. 

“Timothée,” Armie spins him around and kisses him, deep, hands on his shoulders, “you okay?”

Timothée smiles like he’s embarrassed by the question but grateful for the concern. The freckles on his cheeks pop out like stars when he flushes. 

“Yes. Promise.”

“Does it hurt?” Armie works a hand down Timmy’s naked, sweaty spine. 

“Armie, you once fucked me up the ass seven different times in one day.” There’s laughter in Timothée’s voice. His pretty cock is hard as hell against Armie’s thigh. Good sign.

“Yeah, but, like—we’ve never done _this_ before.”

Timothée reaches up and puts a finger at the line where Armie’s lips meet. 

“I’m good, love. Are you?” Armie nods, fast. Timmy laughs in the snort-y, little-kid way he does when he’s not being watched. It makes Armie’s heart ache with the sweetness. 

“Bobblehead.” Timothée says, because it’s exactly the kind of thing he says, and Armie’s face breaks into a grin. He pulls Timmy towards him into a hug that, the both of them stark naked in the under-heated loft, feels somehow more intimate than nearly anything else. “Okay, I need some water.”

Timmy slips out of the kitchen to the bathroom as Armie stands at the sink and gulps the glass of water that he hadn’t known he needed until it touched his lips, leaving him with orders to meet back in the bedroom. Armie, having drained the cup, makes his way down the hallway to Timothée’s tiny, lovely room. 

Armie loves it in here; the space radiates _Timmy_ and _frazzled 20-something creative_ through every inch of it. The mattress on the floor, unmade with a corner of the fitted sheet popped off it and upwards of five blankets and throws tossed haphazardly over it. Thin-blooded East Coast boy. Armie flops down among the pile of softness, lets himself be enveloped by Timmy’s smell. The nightstand is overflowing with paperback books, mechanical pencils, empty, dust-covered glasses, candy wrappers, antihistamine bottles, a leather-bound Moleskine notebook, lip balm tubes, and (Armie smirks at it) a bottle of lube. On the floor and the clothing rack that’s pushed up against the far wall, clothes are strewn; t-shirts, flannel pajama pants, high-necked sweaters, black jeans, jackets. Armie’s willing to bet that there’s a fair share of designer clumped into those piles. (Timothée hates flashing labels, but loves pretty clothes.) The walls have postcards, polaroids, ticket stubs, programs, playbills, scripts, notes, fucking _receipts_ taped all over them; Timmy can’t stand to throw things away. The picture window is covered with a gauzy white curtain that Armie has photographed him against, the light ringing him in a halo. There’s a Kid Cudi vinyl, signed in black sharpie, displayed on the sill. His proudest possession. 

Then the door (there’s a whiteboard hanging on the back of it that still bears a smeared message from the last time Armie was here, scrawled down in the early morning blackness as he packed in silence for his flight and Timothée dozed on the mattress; _Sleep easy, Timmy. I’ve loved you as long as I’ve known you. See you soon_ ) creaks open. 

Timothée is standing there, arms hanging at his sides, face glowing with hopeful, innocent questioning; _is this okay?_ Armie’s breath pulls in involuntarily as his eyes trail down Timmy’s frame. Oh, _god_. He’s wearing the ivory panties—they stretch lewdly over his hardness, are marked a small wet spot in the front that Armie would die to get his mouth on. His skin is only a few shades deeper than that of the silk, and the barely-there contrast, the freckles that stand out more sharply around the lacy edges, is somehow so erotic that Armie can barely handle it. Timmy holds his arms out, an unselfconscious smile playing on his mouth as he turns around slowly. Fucking Victoria’s Secret model. The keyhole shows off the reddened, taut skin of his ass, packaged up like a little gift. There’s a new bruise on the back of his hip (did Armie do that?) that peeks above the hem. 

Jesus fucking Christ. 

“You like?” Timothée asks, like they’re in a goddamn early 2000s romcom, and all Armie can do is nod. Timmy fake-pouts, bottom lip stuck out and pink. Armie laughs, cheeks hot. Seeing Timmy in lingerie has him more flustered than nearly anything else has made him in his _life_. Armie Hammer, everyone. A sick, sick man. 

“ _Yes_ , idiot, I like. I like a lot.” He holds out his arms, a _come here_ motion, and Timothée sidles into them, swaying his hips. Goddamn tease. 

Armie drapes his arms around Timmy’s hips, sitting there on the mattress on front of him, and presses a kiss into the dip of his pelvis. Timmy gets his hands in Armie’s hair like he’s being blown, sighs out through his nose. 

Armie licks gently at the wet spot on the silk, relishing the feel of it on his tongue and the salty muskiness of Timmy’s precum. Timmy moans Armie’s name, thick and caught in his throat, and that’s it; Armie grabs his hips and flips him down into the mattress as he shrieks and giggles wildly. 

“Wow, Mr. Hammer.” He says in this high, lilting voice. “Look at those muscles.” Armie rolls his eyes and pins Timmy down into the blankets with his forearm pressed across skinny shoulders. 

“You’re dumb.” He mutters, because Timmy looking like this steals his words and his IQ. 

“I know.” Timothée says, smiling wide enough for Armie to see most of his teeth. “You still wanna have sex with me, though.”

“That... that’s true.” Armie feels silly and liquid with the way every one of his synapses is firing at having Timmy here, under him, like this. “I really like these.” He says, reaching down to loop a thumb under the hem of Timmy’s panties. 

“Me too.” Timmy whispers. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” 

“You were right, y’know? This is a really good birthday.”

“I’m glad.” Armie is struck with the realization that right here, right now is the most content he’s ever felt in his life. 

“Armie?” Timmy’s voice is the perfect sound.

“Yes?”

“Kiss me?”

Armie does, arching down to press up against Timmy’s mouth. His hand slips over Armie’s back, across the dimples above his ass. Armie gets a knee in between Timothée’s thighs and feels the slick that clings to the warm insides of them, leftover lube that he didn’t bother wiping off. 

“I almost don’t want to take those off.” Armie sighs into Timmy’s temple as Timmy bites hard and sexy at Armie’s neck. 

“Do it anyways.” Timothée replies, coming up for air. Armie does, maneuvering himself into a kneel so he won’t crush Timmy when he stops bracing with his elbows. Timmy bends his legs and pushes his ass up, so Armie can tug the damp panties, already soaked with the smell of precum and lube and sex, off of Timmy’s pale thighs. He sucks a hickey into the soft curve of skin where thigh flows into perineum. 

“Ah!” Timmy groans it sharply, back arching, ankles locking together behind Armie’s head like a girl in a porno. The whole scene gives Armie an idea. Not a very original one, admittedly, but good anyways. He raises his head, smiles at a sweating, swearing Timmy, then lowers it again with his mouth around Timothée’s dick.

Timmy shouts a little and kicks Armie in the neck with his intertwined feet, hands dancing over the bed for something to grab onto. This is what Armie loves about sucking Timmy off; he’s so damn _responsive_. Armie hadn’t gotten loads of blowjobs at 23 either, but he knows that for Timmy, it’s still all so new and special and ardently shocking. Armie guesses the handful of people he’d been with before Armie didn’t go much for cocksucking. 

Timmy makes a loud, drawn out sound from the back of his throat as Armie takes him all the way, letting the suction of his cheeks and tongue work for him. 

“Fuck, _baby_.” Another thing Armie loves about doing this: he can listen to Timmy talk while it happens. Armie’s really going for it, letting his jaw hang as loose as he can manage, bobbing his neck fast and with no real rhythm. Timothée _keens_ under him, his thighs spasming inwards to sandwich Armie’s head between them. “Please, Armie, please, please, please.”

Armie knows, from the way Timmy’s thighs shake and clench and the way his breathing goes and the harshness with which he clutches at Armie’s hair, that he’s about to come. He keeps going, sucking Timmy down as far as he can, bringing a hand up to cup at his balls, and that’s that. Armie barely has time to prepare himself before Timmy is shooting off, with an embarrassed groan, against the back of his throat. 

“Fuck, _god_ , Armie, I’m sorry—“ Timothée pushes himself up to his elbows, looking a little like Elio in the scene where Oliver sits there and eats the peach—mortified, flushed, almost upset by the absolute, overwhelming intimacy of it all. Armie pulls off, in love with him, his mouth full of _Timothée_ , and clambers up to grab at him by the back of the neck. When their mouths meet, Armie spits what he hasn’t already reflexively swallowed between Timmy’s gaping, swollen lips. 

“Oh.” Timmy pants, and it’s garbled around the cum, _his_ cum, that leaks out over his red red bottom lip. Armie has to look down and concentrate on, like, unsexy baseball scores for a moment because it’s such a fucking close thing. Then he’s clashing his own mouth against Timothée’s and everything is so obscenely, saltily, sensually _gross_. Armie fucking loves it. 

After a minute Timmy breaks away, swallows the conglomeration in his mouth with a gulp, and falls back onto the bed with glazed-over eyes. 

“How...” he starts, voice still phlegmy and thick like he has a cold. Armie wishes he had water to offer him. “How the _fuck_ was that still hot?” 

Armie laughs from his belly, flops down next to Timothée in the mess of blankets that stick to his sweating skin. 

“It was though, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Timmy replies, still sounding dazed and slightly repulsed. “Jesus, Hammer.” 

“Don’t ‘Hammer’ me.” Armie retorts, before they both realize how it sounds and dissolve again into peals of laughter. “At least, not tonight. That’s my job.” 

At that, Timmy still laughing on the sex-smelly mattress with cum on his chin and an arm thrown above his head, Armie rolls over and reaches up to the nightstand for the lube. Timothée huffs a half-indignant little gasp when he sees it.

“Listen, even I can’t get hard again that quickly.” Armie shuffles down the bed and Timmy, despite his words, spreads his legs wide to accommodate him. 

“Who said I need you hard for this?“ Timothée stops pouting at this and grunts a little, a sound like he didn’t mean to make it. His eyes darken. (Armie learned early on that Timmy likes being talked to in that manner. Like he’s a rag doll, a fuck toy. Like Armie’s taking whatever he wants. Timmy would probably go further with it too, but treating him like a voiceless vessel for too long makes Armie’s stomach churn. So he keeps it light, packs it into offhand comments like these.) “You’ll be there anyways as soon as I put a goddamn digit in you.” 

Timothée groans, rutting his hips up into nothing. He’s soft, for the moment, and slick from Armie’s mouth. Pink and gorgeous, nested in dark curls at his pelvis. Armie could blow him again, right now. Again and again and again. 

Instead, he snaps open the cap to the lube, hard enough that he breaks the little plastic piece that holds it on. No matter—they’ll go through enough of this as is. It’s cold on Armie’s fingers, and part of him wants to take them straight up Timmy’s ass so he’ll feel that icy jolt too, all over all those nerves. But Armie lets it sit instead, lets it warm to body temperature before he nudges, ever so gently, at the hot pucker of Timmy’s still-stretched, slick hole.

“Oh, _fuck_.” Timothée bursts out, loud enough that it’s funny. His neighbors must be getting what’s essentially a play-by-play of what’s going on in this loft, just from Timmy’s over-enthusiastic French mouth. “Fuck you, Armie, _more, harder_.” Armie snorts at him and shoves his middle finger inside, up to the second knuckle in one swift motion. 

Timmy jolts, spine arching off the bed as he curses. He’s already stiffening up again, and Armie is the slightest bit jealous of his youthful, unrelenting drive. Armie could keep him tied down and stuffed full every minute of the day and Timmy would thrive off it. He could just milk that pretty cock, over and over, as much as it could take and more. The image makes Armie shiver.

Fingers two and three serve to get Timmy fully hard again, hard and writhing up off the bed, bearing down on Armie’s digits, thrashing his head back and clamping his hands over his face. The whole scene is accompanied by moans at volumes that Armie thinks would embarrass Timmy if that was an emotion he was still capable of. Armie works at his prostate until he’s afraid that Timothée will come before he’s even inside, then pulls his fingers out and leans forward to kiss him slow and deep. Timmy, complaining like he doesn’t really mean it (he knows Armie won’t leave him hanging), puts both hands on either side of Armie’s face and pushes his sharp little tongue into his mouth. 

They kiss like that for a minute or two, until Timmy’s hands start roaming again and Armie pulls away and slicks up his cock and lines up in a frantic rush of motion, suddenly sure he can’t wait another second. 

Timothée looks up at him, knees bent up to his chest and held open by his gorgeous long-fingered hands, and that face Armie loves is so trusting and open and tender that Armie nearly tears up. (Maybe he actually does, a little bit, but whatever. That’s what Timmy does to him.) 

Timmy grabs Armie’s right bicep and squeezes, eyes closed and tooth hooked in his bottom lip as Armie pushes the head in. He’s still so _tight_ that Armie can’t believe that he was sitting, stretched to the hilt, on a cock not forty minutes ago. It’s like pushing into a virgin (which is what Timmy was, in this way, the first time they did this). Timothée’s fingers on his skin are the best kind of pressure. He gasps, tenses, loosens up only to tense again, throws his head back, shrugs his shoulders up, scrabbles his hands over Armie’s back and neck, sweats, cries out. Armie kisses his neck, trying his best not to crush Timothée underneath him, murmurs _let me in, baby, relax, you’re so perfect, so good for me, there you are, uh huh, okay, perfect, so lovely, love you, love you_. 

Then, boom, he’s fully seated inside of Timothée, arms shaking so bad from how fucking _good_ it is. Timmy curls up around him, breath hitching like he’s crying as his arms and legs close around Armie’s body. 

“Alright?” Armie whispers into his ear, loving it like this, loving how close they are, loving the tangle of their limbs. 

“Yes. So alright.” Timothée’s cheek is a little damp as Armie presses his face against it. Beautiful. He’s so fucking beautiful. 

Armie starts asking _do you want me to move_ at the same moment that Timmy grunts out _move_. He doesn’t need to be told twice. 

And here’s where Timmy’s lack of a headboard comes in handy, because it would be slamming into the wall loudly enough to alert the neighbors into dialing law enforcement. Timothee’s eyes roll back. Armie pulls out nearly all the way, the chill of the air on his slicked cock an unpleasant shock, then slams back home into the delicious warmth of Timothee’s body. Timmy’s legs spasm, straighten, then clench back around Armie’s back with renewed force. He cries out in French, something that Armie is too far gone to even attempt to decipher but that is so fucking sexy anyways that Armie has to get his hands under Timmy’s lower back, angle him up, and fuck into him like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Timmy grabs the back of his head. They almost kiss, lips missing and clashing off salty skin. 

Armie knows that every thrust at this angle is dragging across Timmy’s prostate from the way that he’s writhing and panting and scratching a whole handful of nails down Armie’s ribs. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, come on, come _on_.” Timmy rumbles, pressing his open mouth to Armie’s shoulder and biting down. Armie rides the short, delicious burst of pain, slamming into Timmy again and again. This has become a means to an end at this point; Armie is so fucking close. 

“Touch yourself.” He growls, and Timmy doesn’t waste a second in shoving his hand between their sticky, cloying abdomens and getting a grip on his cock. Armie fucks into him; he shouts, thrashes, and comes in a fast, hot burst that coats Armie’s torso. 

Armie pulls back as Timmy flops back into the mattress, limbs like jelly, a cum-covered hand twisted into his dark hair, his face slack and fucked-out and his legs still so damn open and accommodating. 

One, two, three more thrusts, the hardest he’s given Timmy so far, thrusts that wrack his whole body, and Armie is coming with a bitten-off shout. 

His elbows all but give out, sending him crashing down boneless on top of Timmy, his cock still inside, cum and lube and sweat mingling between them as they heave. Armie can hardly catch his breath. Timmy brings his arms up around his neck and holds him close in a hug; Armie kisses his face over and over and over. 

When he finally does pull out, it’s sticky and uncomfortable for all parties involved, a whole affair of groaning and panting with cum running down Timothée’s brick-red thighs. 

“Damn.” Timothée grunts once Armie has flopped down beside him with his dick soaked and cum drying itchy on his stomach. “Happy birthday, me.”

Armie turns to him, a huge, joyous guffaw bubbling up from his chest. Timmy is laying there on his side, curled up all tiny and lovely, speckled with marks from Armie’s teeth and nails, hair plastered to his glowing, ethereal face. Armie rolls into him, gathers him up in his arms and presses wet kisses into every available inch of skin as Timmy shrieks with laughter. 

“Happy birthday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are! :’)) Thank you all so much for all your continued support throughout this lil story. I’m so glad that people seem to be liking it. I love these two and I love you all. Until next time!!

**Author's Note:**

> I fucking survive for comments SATE ME


End file.
